Written for a class at Carnegie Mellon University in 2007.

Rosalind and her father, the Magnificent Migo, spend an awkward weekend together at the confirmation class retreat.

Rosalind thought having Confirmation Class during the summer was an injustice against thirteen-year-olds everywhere. With the sun setting at almost nine o’clock, it wasn’t fair that she was stuck in the hot church school building from five to eight every Sunday night. She thought of the retreat in a week and winced. No, she decided, that was the true injustice. A weekend with the other church kids in some woodsy site in cow country.

Rosalind began attempting to beg her way out of Confirmation Class at four-thirty every Sunday. It hadn’t worked yet, but she was optimistic. Persistence will get you anywhere, her father said her often enough. She almost believed him.

“Mom, it’s only the four of us and it’s so boring.” She imagined her sweaty skin sticking to the plastic chairs in the musty classroom while she stared at grumpy Pastor Dan. At least at Sunday School in the mornings she could stare at their teacher, James, and daydream about him. His perfect smile. His perfect eyes.

“Sorry, Rosalind. You’re still going.” Her mother wasn’t looking at Rosalind; her eyes moved down the row of cages stacked against the far wall of the cramped living room with brusque precision. Her mother wore her white veterinarian’s coat as she marked boxes on her clipboard, checking the living room menagerie twice a day with the same attention to detail she obsessively used in her practice down the street. The four parakeets, six doves, and three rabbits were bound to have a more exciting evening than Rosalind.

Mikey, holding a bag of bird food and following their mother as she refilled the feed cups, stuck his tongue out at Rosalind, his brown eyes bulging. “Rosalind’s gotta go to school,” he taunted, “but Mikey actually has a vacation.” In the fall he would be a third grader. It wasn’t worth explaining her situation to him.

“It’s not real school, Mikey,” their mother said absently. “With the retreat next weekend, you definitely should go tonight, Rosalind.”

The logic didn’t make sense. Next week she was getting a double dose of Confirmation Class, which clearly meant she didn’t need to go this week. She was tempted to drag up the old argument, that it was not fair that she had to go to Confirmation Class even when the family didn’t go to church. Her parents had gone to church when they both were younger with their own parents, but didn’t believe in going themselves anymore. But for some ridiculous reason no one had completely explained, Rosalind was forced to go to Confirmation Class.

“But Mom—”

The front door opened and their father entered with his usual flair, dumping down his large black cases in the foyer. “Hey, hey,” he boomed into the house. “The Magnificent Migo has arrived!” He bowed, full of stage flourishes.

“Hi, Migo,” her mother called, grinning as she always did at the Magnificent Migo’s antics.

“Hey, Dad!” Mikey called.

Rosalind spun around to him. “Please say I don’t have to go to Confirmation Class, Dad, it’s not worth my time, really—”

“Rosalind, grab one, won’t you?”

She moved to grab one of the heavy black cases filled with her father’s equipment and heaved it to its usual spot by the couch. “But Dad—”

“No arguing.” Her father wore a black and purple cape over a black sport coat and slacks, white shirt, and purple tie, with red Converse All Stars on his feet to finish the ensemble. “The Magnificent Migo has no time to argue if he’s to get you to class on time.” Her father referred to himself in the third person whenever he was in costume. It was a habit Rosalind had long since gotten used to, and one that Mikey was starting to pick up himself.

“How was it?” her mother called from near the cages. “Seniors liked the show?”

“They always do,” he replied proudly. Only her father’s eyes seemed tired from a day of performing. He did a circuit of the nursing homes on Sunday afternoons, doing one each Sunday for three weeks, then a week off, then cycling back again. Rosalind went with him went he went to the Miller Center for the Elderly every second Sunday, which was only a block away from the church, but third Sundays he went to the Berger Day Center, which meant she didn’t have to stand around looking at the vapidly staring old ladies and gaunt men who clapped tiredly at her dad’s gimmicky tricks. Old people bothered Rosalind only slightly more than the idea of camping with the church kids in cow country.

“Dad, guess what the Magnificent Mikey did today?” Mikey asked excitedly, skipping over to the front door. The bag of birdseed in his arms threatened to spill. “Guess!”

“The Magnificent Migo will guess later, so Rosalind won’t be late,” her father replied, tousling Mikey’s hair and righting the birdseed bag in his arms. Migo turned to Rosalind. “Got your things?”

“Dad, please—”

Migo crossed his arms and looked down at her. The effect of his height, suit, purple tie, and cape was almost as intimidating to Rosalind as it was ridiculous. She sighed and shuffled off to get her bag with a copy of Luther’s Catechism, a notebook, and a pen, praying that no one would see her father in his costume when he dropped her off at the church.

***

Her father’s hand on the worn steering wheel tapped in rhythm with his whistling as he pulled onto the exit ramp. The radio and tape deck had been broken for months now, and the air conditioning for years, so the only noise besides the creaking transmission as her father shifted gears was what they generated themselves. Migo whistled some song Rosalind had never heard before. All he typically needed was a bar or two of any song and he was off, whistling like a mad parakeet. How he managed to have this much energy every day eluded Rosalind. Neither her father nor mother believed in caffeine or carbonation.

It was bad enough that any school friends who came to her house saw the stacked animal cages, her mother always in her lab coat (even when cooking meals, like some sort of mad scientist), Mikey knocking things over and loudly talking in the third person, and her father in all of his colorful costumed glory. It only got worse when her father would pull out a deck of cards and ask them to “Pick a card, any card! The Magnificent Migo will guess exactly which card you have chosen.” After that, they’d made faces that clearly meant Your family is from Mars and hadn’t come over again. She didn’t have enough friends anymore to risk the few friendships she still had by bringing them over.

“Excited about that retreat?”

“Not really.” The exit took them through the heart of White Plains, passing the mall with Sunday evening traffic honking and jostling to get into its overpriced parking garage. The many lanes of the busy streets were tightly packed all the way to the center of the city. The wide-windowed shops on either side and anxious pedestrians hesitating at crosswalks reminded Rosalind they lived in a city, near an even bigger city. All of the loud life and sound around them was home.

“It’s up in Putnam, isn’t it?”

“Duchess County,” she corrected. Even further north than Putnam. “Cow country.”

“Ah,” he said, nodding thoughtfully. “I like Duchess County. Remember the fair? We took you guys there when you were little—your mother was the on-call vet there one year, remember?”

“No, I don’t remember.”

“It was great. The Rhinebeck fair—that’s what it’s called. We don’t have anything like that down here, none of those food and livestock judging competitions and trick riding shows. We should take you guys there again.” He nodded and glanced over at Rosalind. “It’s good to remember there’s something other than this,” he said, waving a hand to indicate the traffic. “A little natural wonder might go a long way for a practical girl like you.”

She saw him grinning at her. Rosalind slid down her seat and looked out of the window. The Magnificent Migo never knew when to shut up. Unlike Mikey, Rosalind had stopped enjoying the Magnificent Migo’s “magic” tricks when she was in the third grade and she learned about mathematical probability.

They turned onto another wide avenue and the church appeared, its great gray stones a century old and easily dwarfed by the neon-lit structures on either side of it. The old stonework-and-glass church was crammed between an office building with an Italian deli on its ground floor on one side and a men’s suit shop with a multi-story gym over it on the other. A narrow side street led to the quiet road behind the church.

Pastor Dan, tall and white-haired, stood outside the back door of the church school building behind the church itself. He held a cigarette discreetly at his hip as if to pretend he was holding it for someone else. He was always too attentive, active with the sort of grandfatherly energy she associated with the younger men at the nursing homes her father visited.

He flicked the butt to the grass and hurried over to the car, gesturing for Migo to roll down the driver’s side window. Her father complied—or tried to, struggling with the manual window. It jammed. He cranked the knob a few times and it still did not budge. Her father stopped trying and just looked through the two inch gap at Pastor Dan.

“Migo, Rosalind, hello,” he said, bobbing his head to them.

“Hello, Pastor Dan,” they said in unison.

“Migo, I was wondering if I could have a word?” Pastor Dan’s crinkled blue eyes indicated Rosalind. She was not welcome to hear the word, apparently. She didn’t move.

“Yes?” her father asked. He had caught Pastor Dan’s look and evidently agreed with Rosalind.

“Are you available next weekend?”

“Um.” He was silent for a moment, thinking. “It’s my weekend off.”

Rosalind sank slowly lower into the front passenger seat. No, no, no, she thought.

“Wonderful. Would you be willing to be a chaperone for the retreat? Amy’s mother can’t after all.”

“You want me to chaperone?”

If Pastor Dan was asking her father it was bad. Pastor Dan and the Magnificent Migo had gotten into more than one loud argument, though neither were the shouting types, instead attempting to dwarf the other’s words by being louder. From what Rosalind had overheard, they never seemed to be discussing anything that had a right or wrong answer, anyway. Usually they managed to be tightly polite with each other, like now.

“I’d—we’d—really appreciate it, Migo.”

“I’ll have to talk to Claire about it,” he said, and Pastor Dan’s hopeful expression became a little more desperate. “But I’m, um, sure I could do it.”

The relief on Pastor Dan’s face was obvious. “Good, good. I’ll send Rosalind home with some forms. And you might not want to bring your—the costume,” he added.

“Right…Dan.” His voice was cautiously polite. “Rosalind?”

She took her cue and got out of the car. There was no good reason for Migo not to chaperone, and neither of her parents would ever lie to a man like Pastor Dan. Rosalind’s feet were heavy as she walked up to class.

***

All four of them were on time. Amy, silent as ever, was intent on a doodle in her spiral notebook. Rosalind doubted she had written anything about Martin Luther or the church calendar down at all in the past ten months of class. Rocco and Kevin both balanced on two of their chairs’ legs, grinning and insulting each other. They were only friendly because they were the only two boys in the class. Rocco’s shirt had orange cheese powder stains down the front and his long hair was knotted and greasy, while Kevin, the Assistant Pastor’s son, wore a crisp blue polo and khakis. His blond hair was brushed and parted neatly. But despite the neatness, Kevin had a flat face and a flat head and looked to be only Mikey’s age instead of hers. He was completely unlike his sixteen year old brother James, who was perfection incarnate. James taught the seventh and eighth graders Sunday School—for his college applications, he’d confided to Rosalind months ago. She suppressed a shiver at the memory of James’ wink and grin when he’d told her that. He’d be going on the retreat, she remembered. Maybe it wasn’t going to be completely miserable.

Rocco’s chair legs slipped first, sending him toppling over backwards and the chair crashing to the linoleum of the ancient classroom with a resounding smack. He laughing hysterically, rolling around to hop back up to his feet. “Ta-da!” he cried with arms outstretched, as if it had all been planned. Amy didn’t look up. Kevin yanked himself straight and looked around anxiously.

Pastor Dan walked in and ignored both Kevin and Rocco. He put a book, Bible, and a stack of papers on one side of the desk and wrote “1521 – Luther’s Excommunication” on the black board. He passed around a photocopied worksheet from a textbook about Martin Luther’s excommunication. Rosalind studied the artist’s rendering of Luther in black and white on the sheet. He was fat and a definite ex-monk. They had been studying the history of Martin Luther since Pentecost in May, when the eighth graders had all gotten confirmed and left their class. Until September it would only be the few of them until the new group of seventh graders joined them and they started learning about the church calendar and holidays again.

With a finger, Pastor Dan indicated that Kevin should read aloud from the sheet. “In 1521, Luther was called before the Diet of Worms—”

“Worms?” Rocco interrupted, sniggering.

“No, Worms,” Pastor Dan corrected, pronouncing it as Vorms. He put a wide, wrinkled hand to his forehead and rubbed it. “It’s a city in Germany.” Pastor Dan had five grown children and two grandchildren. Rosalind expected if he hadn’t gotten used to handling kids, he would have gone insane a few times over already.

“Why would the Germans name a city after worms?” Rocco asked. He grinned as he asked it, like he did every single time he asked a stupid, pointless question. Rosalind wanted to throw something at him but she didn’t have anything she didn’t want to be contaminated.

“They didn’t, Rocco, it’s a coincidence of language. Kevin, keep reading.”

Rosalind sat back and rolled her eyes. The retreat was going to be amazing. A-ma-zing.

***

Dr. Terrazini dropped off both Rosalind and Migo—plain Migo today, in jeans and a t-shirt—at the church parking lot the following Friday afternoon. They had not owned two cars since Rosalind was little, and it was only at times like this when Rosalind really hated it. She and her father were going to have to ride in Pastor Dan’s van with the other kids.

“Migo, no philosophical arguments with the children in hearing range, please. We don’t want them to be disenchanted just yet,” Rosalind’s mother told her father as he and Rosalind got out of the car.

“Mikey is already disenchanted,” Mikey said enthusiastically from the back seat.

“No, you’re not, Mikey. Have a good time!” she called, leaning over the passenger seat.

“We will,” Migo told her and shut the passenger door tightly. His voice was unusually strained. For a change, he seemed to share Rosalind’s feelings about something.

He held a bulging duffel bag and an ancient sleeping bag wrapped in plastic that had probably last been pulled out of the attic twenty years ago. Rosalind’s gear was newer, part of her Girl Scout necessities. Pastor Dan nodded greetings as he took their gear and stowed it in the back of the van, one of only two remaining vehicles in the small parking lot. Kevin, his mother, and his older brother leaned against the other one, their brand new 1998 Lexus. His father was staying to perform the Sunday service here, because Pastor Dan was going with them. But James was going. Six feet tall with arms crossed carelessly over his broad chest, he nodded to her and her father in greeting. Rosalind grinned back stupidly. She fought the sudden urge to beg a ride with them instead of having to deal with the combined Rocco and Migo experience of Pastor Dan’s van.

“All ready,” Pastor Dan announced. “Let’s get in.” Rosalind hesitated before getting in, glancing back to see the Lexus’ doors were already closed, its passengers inside and no longer looking at the van. She turned back to see Amy already asleep in the back of the van, her arms clutching her backpack like a stuffed toy. Rocco lounged across the middle bench of the van, grinning at her wickedly. Somehow Rosalind had thought she’d be sitting next to her father, not Amy or Rocco. Pastor Dan spoke up again. “Migo, would you sit next to Rocco?”

Migo had never met Rocco. Rosalind squeezed in next to Amy, who didn’t wake up. Rocco stuck his head out of the van and grinned at Rosalind’s father, holding out a grubby hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Terrazini, sir,” he said. “Ros said you’re a magician.”

“Rocco—Dad—I didn’t mean—”

But Migo grinned back. Instead of being upset that she’d mentioned it, he seemed thrilled. “That I am,” he told Rocco, getting in next to him and slamming the door. “The Magnificent Migo, at your service,” he said in his magician’s voice.

“That’s so cool,” Rocco said. There was a something like awe in the look he gave Rosalind’s father. Rosalind’s teeth grated in a silent groan of annoyance.

Pastor Dan sighed and shook his head as he settled in the driver’s seat.

***

The campsite was a collection of three cabins, an open-air kitchen structure, and a bathroom and shower building all clustered around a fire pit. In the middle of the woods, in the middle of nowhere. In cow country.

Rosalind had counted the cow farms with silos and tractors and the whole deal on their way up the Taconic Parkway—five. Though she could have dozed off through one or two, so she estimated it was really more like eight. Then they had driven from parkway to two lane road to one lane dirt track to this place. The silence of the campground hung heavily in the air around them. The heavy foliage surrounding the rough wooden buildings all but blocked out the sun. Rosalind had never seen trees densely packed enough that she could not see anything beyond them. From the parkways near White Plains she could see more roads through the trees, or streetlights and outlines of buildings at night between the wide trunks. Even when she went camping with the Girl Scouts they were only a mile from a few strip malls—and all of their cabins and kitchens had electricity and running water. The kitchen here was little more than a roof over a cement barbeque.

They were cut off from everything alive, everything that mattered.

She thought of James. Well, not everything.

Migo and Rocco hopped from the van together, still laughing at some joke Migo had made. Their laughter seemed stifled by the oppressive silence, not reaching beyond the small clearing. They had talked and laughed the entire trip, jolting both Rosalind and Amy out of their attempts at naps a few times. Migo instantly adopted the stage speech, mannerisms, and eagerness of the Magnificent Migo once he realized Rocco would be all the captive audience he needed for a performance. He had brought three decks of cards of various types, trick and normal coins, and a few colorful scarves.

Rocco had not bothered anyone else for the entire two and a half hour drive. Pastor Dan had muttered something about a miracle in disguise.

Kevin’s mother, Amy, and Rosalind took one cabin, Migo, James, Kevin, and Rocco another, and Pastor Dan took one to himself. “I’m an old man. I go to bed early,” he said to Migo, by way of explanation, though Migo hadn’t complained.

The cabins were filled with dead leaves and dirt. The cot mattresses were wrapped in a stiff raincoat material and the single light bulb hanging from the ceiling didn’t work when Mrs. Brauer tried the switch. Amy bit her lip and looked around with wide eyes, borderline terrified. Mrs. Brauer’s mouth was flat and a crease appeared between her brows as she surveyed the single room.

The Girl Scouts had prevented her from being as useless as they were. Rosalind claimed a mattress for herself. “I’m going to find a broom,” she announced, leaving Mrs. Brauer and Amy to stand in the dirty cabin.

As she crossed the grassy campsite, she heard shouting from the boys’ cabin and heard Rocco’s distinctive shriek of laughter. “Boys,” she muttered, hurrying to the kitchen area.

Someone was already rummaging in the metal shed in the kitchen. Expecting Pastor Dan, Rosalind almost jumped when the door slammed shut to reveal James.

“Hi,” she said. It sounded more like a hiccup than a greeting.

“Hi.” He held a broom in one hand and looked at her curiously. She stared at the broom. “You looking for this?” His teeth were very straight. Had he worn braces at one time, or were his teeth naturally that perfect?

“Um. Yes.”

“I’ll bring it over when I’m done. How’s that?” She felt herself nod, though she hadn’t consciously told herself to nod. James smiled and turned, walking across the grass to the boys’ cabin with an athletic grace, as if the broom were a lacrosse stick or baseball bat. Her father said that angels were only a lie created by the church, but Rosalind knew there had to be something otherworldly or angelic about James for him to be that perfect.

***

At the fire that night they sat in the groups they had fallen into for the afternoon’s cleaning, settling in, and eating of packed dinners. Pastor Dan sat alone on one large log, facing the others. He held a box of marshmallows and skewers protectively on his lap, as if to prevent Rocco from stealing them if he let them out of sight. Rosalind, Amy, and Mrs. Brauer all sat together but said nothing—they hadn’t spoken to one another all afternoon—while the boys all sat on another log, with Migo in the middle, James and Rocco on either side of him. Kevin sat next to James but kept making faces at his older brother as if James had stolen the better seat. Migo was half-grinning, as if he’d just had the best afternoon imaginable.

Pastor Dan was grumpy. The light in his cabin didn’t work either, but the light in the boys’ cabin did work. Rosalind suspected Pastor Dan of being jealous of that, but he seemed to proud to ask the boys to switch cabins—or light bulbs—because the girls hadn’t asked.

He seemed to decide something. “Karen? Migo? I’m going to turn in. We’ve got a lot to do tomorrow.” Pastor Dan stood wearily and handed the box of marshmallows to Mrs. Brauer.

“Are you sure?” Migo asked. Their was something about her father’s face that looked a little too much like pleasure to make her believe his sympathetic expression was genuine.

“Quite sure, Migo. Good night, everyone.”

After Pastor Dan left, Mrs. Brauer attempted to assume control of the group. “I think one marshmallow for each person is good,” she said, opening one of the three plastic bags of marshmallows.

“Only one?” Rocco whined at the same time Kevin begged, “Please, Mom?”

“There are plenty, Mom,” James pointed out, pulling out another bag. “Why don’t we each have a few?”

“No,” Mrs. Brauer said, a sharp warning tone in her voice. Immediately James dropped the marshmallow bag and Kevin stopped his pleading.

“Karen. Let’s give them a few each. No harm in that.” Migo spoke soothingly, lifting the bag James had touched and—without waiting for approval—ripped it open. Mrs. Brauer stared at him, shock plain on her face. He stuck in a skewer, put two on it, and handed it to Rocco, then did the same for both Kevin and James.

“I’ve chaperoned on this retreat for—”

“Karen, it’s camping. It’s marshmallows. Come on, relax.”

She did. Rosalind had never seen Mrs. Brauer, a leader at church events, give in so easily.

“Your dad is really cool,” Kevin said quietly to Rosalind as they both reached for marshmallows.

“Yes,” she said, almost hissing the word. It was hard not to scowl.

***

They woke early on Saturday. Pastor Dan was vividly awake with a clipboard in his hands as the group gathered around cold cereal at breakfast. He gave them the run-down of the agenda, and then they were off, heading through the woods on a trail down to a lake hidden behind the trees where one of the campground guides would teach them to canoe and they could swim. After the lake, they were going to do “activities” back at the site in the kitchen that Mrs. Brauer had devised. Rosalind kept her arms crossed and lips tightly closed throughout the morning. Her father was looking unusually bright and chipper. The boys all quietly quarreled over who would sit next to Migo, or walk with Migo, or even talk with Migo.

Stupid boys, Rosalind wanted to mutter, but she kept her mouth resolutely shut. She would show them how mature she could be.

On the hike down to the lake, Kevin and Rocco played a racing game of tag through the trees, Mrs. Brauer listened to a book-on-tape, and Amy stared around them, eyes taking in the scenery. James caught up to Rosalind and Migo, striking up a friendly conversation about the Yankees and the Mets with her father.

“I haven’t seen you at church,” James said later, changing the topic.

“Yes. Claire—Rosalind’s mother—and I don’t go to church.” He smiled awkwardly.

“But Rosalind”—James’ glance actually included her in the conversation—“is in Sunday School and Confirmation Class.”

“Her mother’s idea. My wife thinks everyone should have a working understanding of religion. I agree.”

“You don’t follow a religion yourself?”

“I did. I went to twelve years of Catholic school.” Rosalind had only heard the short version of this story. She glanced curiously up at her father. “I had my share of ‘harrowing hell.’ I barely survived. That, and when I told my folks of my magician’s calling, as it were, they were not exactly pleased.”

James smiled slowly. “I think—” He cut off, daring a glance back at his mother. Her eyes were unfocused as she gave her whole attention to the book-on-tape. “I think I know what you mean about parental expectations, Mr. Terrazini. I have a share of my own.”

Rosalind felt a pang of jealousy as Migo and James shared an understanding glance.

“Migo, please. Just Migo.”

“Isn’t that your stage name?”

“Yes and no. I’m really Michael, but when I dubbed myself Migo about thirty years ago, the nuns told me I profaned my Christian name by shortening it. Naturally, that made it stick with all my school friends.”

Rosalind’s resolution to stay quiet almost faltered. Her father had never told her that before. She knew her father’s name was Michael, of course—Mikey was Michael Terrazini, Jr., after all—but the rest…. She slowed her pace. Migo and James went ahead, not noticing that she fell behind. Her father had never acted sonormal before. But it wasn’t with her.

***

When the forced camp dinner was over—hot dogs and hamburgers with Migo doing the grilling on the kitchen’s charcoal grill—Pastor Dan pleaded exhaustion and went into his cabin. Migo went into his own cabin as James helped the rest build up the fire at the center of the site. Migo reappeared a few moments later—in costume.

Rosalind’s heart sank at the sight of her father, grinning happily at the surprised and smiling faces of the other kids. James grinned broadest, second to Rocco. Mrs. Brauer looked at him with an adult’s skepticism. Rosalind had seen that look on the faces of parents at birthday parties; she usually wore that look herself when watching her father’s act. Migo jumped on top of a log near the fire and bowed to everyone. He began the routine Rosalind remembered from the nursing homes; he only did simple tricks that didn’t involve any elaborate props—he hadn’t brought his black cases—and no rabbit or bird tricks. Even so he put on a grand show with copious bows, grinning, and unnecessary audience assistance. After the first trick, Amy looked up from her spiral notebook and Mrs. Brauer didn’t put on her headphones.

Before long it was completely dark, the fire spitting merrily and the sun completely set, Rocco asked where the marshmallows were.

“James, Rosalind? Do you guys want to get them from the kitchen?”

They both got up and hurried over to the kitchen area.

“I wish my dad were more like yours, Rosalind,” James said when they were under the wooden roof of the open kitchen. “Migo is so straightforward. He hates all the sugar-coated nonsense other parents give instead of real answers. And he’s so funny.” James’ eyes almost glowed as he said it. He rummaged in one of the metal storage closets, the one in which their food supplies were kept in their boxes. “Your family must always be exciting. I’m so jealous.”

She couldn’t answer. James didn’t notice and she realized she didn’t care.

Perfect James admired her father. It tightened her stomach unpleasantly. He was sixteen and he liked the goofiness, the jokes, the antics? James was just a too-tall child underneath the straight smiles and brilliant eyes. All of the boys were as immature and annoying as her father. Could no one be mature without beingold, like Pastor Dan? Mrs. Brauer was, she supposed, but she had complained about the uncomfortable canoes, the sun, and the heat, then had retreated to listening to her book-on-tape for the rest of the day.

And why could James possibly be jealous? His father, when he wasn’t acting as Assistant Pastor, had a good job in White Plains at an office, as did his mother. They had a Lexus and a BMW and a large white house a few blocks from the church. What could be so imperfect about his life?

They went back to the fire in silence, carrying the marshmallows, chocolate, graham crackers, and skewers. Migo, still in full costume with cape and hat and all, stood perched dramatically on one of the logs, waving his hands with practiced gravity over the deck of cards he held. Mrs. Brauer held a card in her hand, glancing from it to Migo.

“I have it memorized,” she said.

“Place it back in the deck, anywhere,” he told her, and she obeyed. Migo waved a hand over the cards and shuffled them well. “Cut the deck, please.” She divided it in half and then, as directed, divided it in half again. “Now, Rocco, would you be so kind as to take the top card here and show it to Mrs. Brauer?” Rocco hopped up, all obedient assistant, and took the top card and held it up to Karen. She gasped. “Is that your card?”

“Yes!” she said, and Rosalind saw the unfeigned amazement on her face. Her, too?

James dropped the box he carried by the fire and joined the others in their enthusiastic applause. Amy, her arms wrapped around a notebook, even clapped awkwardly, a grin lighting her usually quiet face.

The others crowded around for sticks and marshmallows and chocolate and asked Migo a good number of questions, most of which he loudly thwarted by saying, “Why, a good magician never reveals his secrets!”

Rosalind’s anger burned beneath her skin, nearly trembling with the sudden ferocity of it. She shot a furious look at her father and stormed off into the dark trees behind the cabins, snatching up a flashlight as she went. Her livid tromping through the brush was soon followed by a second pair of hurrying feet behind her.

“Rosalind! Hey, what’s wrong?” It was the Magnificent Migo.

She turned, her anger blazing. “Why do you always have to do that?” she demanded.

“Do what?”

“Take over! Do your stupid tricks! Can’t you stop being the Magnificent Migo for one second? Ever?”

“Since when have you had an issue with my profession, young lady?”

“Since forever! You’re never like any other normal dad!”

He flinched at the word “normal” like she’d flung a curse at him. “You want me to be more like Pastor Dan? Or Kevin’s dad? Some church man who’s got no sense of humor at all?”

“At least they’re serious!” she snapped, reaching desperately in her memory to find the words and arguments she had so often formed in her head so perfectly and intelligently. She had played this moment again and again, how she would tell him how ridiculous and embarrassing he was, how he made her face go flaming red more often than anything else. Now it was all coming out wrong. She was shouting, her limbs vibrating with adrenaline, and she felt the sharp stinging in her nose that meant tears were about to come. “You don’t act the way a father should,” she said, more quietly.

“And how is that, Professor?” His mouth was flat with anger.

“You’re never serious when it matters, never with me or our family. None of my friends want to come over because they think we’re all crazy, especially you. Even Mikey has started acting like you!” She exhaled a sharp breath and felt the bubble of her anger deflate. “You don’t act like a role model. At least not to me.”

He seemed to want to say a lot to that, all of which he dismissed when he snapped his wordless working jaw shut. Finally, he asked, “When did you get so—prudish?” He looked at her as if she were suddenly an adult he had never met. When she looked at him blankly for a moment, he seemed to realize she didn’t understand the meaning of the word. His eyes softened; she was Rosalind again to him. His mouth twisted into a slow, somber smile. “Rosie, when did you get so old?”

It wasn’t a compliment. He meant the word in the wheezy, boring, elderly sense. There was no longer anger in his eyes; her father looked like he did in those rare times when his trick fell apart mid-performance and the audience laughed at him.

She could have dealt with anger, she knew, but not this terrible, broken feeling of disappointment. The hovering tears fell and she turned, half-running, half-stumbling back to the camp and her cabin.

She didn’t think he’d been the one to make her cry.

***

It was Sunday morning. Rosalind had not cried after her initial tears the night before, but had gone to bed feeling like she had flipped her canoe and she couldn’t find a way to climb back in, out of the water. She stared vacantly past her bowl of dry cereal at breakfast, still feeling half-drowned.

Pastor Dan, however, looked bright and rested. He did brief morning services with none of the formality of the church ceremonies she remembered from the few times she had served as acolyte. Migo seemed to be bearing it out without complaint. Rosalind watched him without trying to seem like she was. She half regretted what she had said, but she didn’t want to let him know that. They were still gathered around the little kitchen area, arranged to face Pastor Dan, when he began his sermon, which, he told them, he had made appropriate in the context of the Confirmation Class’ current studies.

Pastor Dan told the story of when Martin Luther, as a young law student, was caught in a ferocious rain storm one night. Lightning had struck a tree close to him on the road, terrifying him. He prayed fervently for his life to be spared, and when he lived, he dedicated himself to the church and pledged to a monastery, giving up his future as a lawyer to his father’s disappointment. Rosalind noticed Migo was making a face at that, but she couldn’t tell what it was—amusement? Annoyance?

“Faith,” Pastor Dan said, “is an odd thing, and different for everyone. Did God really save Martin Luther’s life, or was it pure luck? Would he have dedicated his life to the church if that had not happened? Did that event make his faith in God stronger?” He shrugged. “Maybe it doesn’t matter. No one’s faith is the same, or was found in the same way. But God loves no one any less, no matter how deeply, or shallowly, their faith runs.” His eyes flicked over the few of them. Did they linger on Migo or Rocco any longer than anyone else?

Pastor Dan ended the service, settling himself down on the bench.

“Is magic real?” Rocco asked suddenly. He didn’t have the tone of one of his usual pointless questions. It sounded sincere. There was even a curious tilt to his eyebrows that might have meant he was actually thinking hard about his question. He was looking between Pastor Dan and Migo. Both men looked at each other, each surprised and wondering if he or the other should answer Rocco.

Pastor Dan watched Migo warily as he asked Rocco, “What do you mean by ‘magic,’ Rocco?”

“Magic,” he said simply.

“Like what I do?” Migo asked, glancing to Pastor Dan.

“Well, yeah, I guess. Like what you do.”

Pastor Dan looked relieved. A simple answer. “Well—”

“It depends,” Migo interrupted. Pastor Dan’s mouth clamped shut—not in anger, however. Migo’s expression was, for once, very serious. He looked at his hands, then glancing up, looked past Rocco’s head to Rosalind. “What I do are tricks and illusions. But I don’t take what I do lightly.” His eyes moved imperceptibly back to Rocco. “The magic comes from two things, I think. There’s my talent”—he waved a hand and a coin appeared, then vanished again with a flick of a wrist—“and then there’s what you believe as my audience. If you look specifically for the trick, for the secret of how I do it, you don’t see the magic. But if you sit back and don’t wonder about the how—then, when I perform, you really do see ‘magic.’ It’s not just about me. Your belief—your faith, if you will—in what I do is what makes it magic.”

“Maybe Luther just needed to remember that God was there, no matter what,” Amy said. “Maybe he just needed to be tested to realize his faith.” Everyone looked at her. Pastor Dan seemed startled. Of everyone, he hadn’t seen her last night at the fire grinning at Migo’s show, Rosalind realized. Amy did pay attention.

“Maybe, Amy,” Pastor Dan said, a smile slightly tilting his mouth.

***

Migo packed the back of Pastor Dan’s van. Rosalind carried her bag over and handed it to her father. He gave her a small smile and she returned it slowly. “I’m sorry,” she muttered quietly.

“For what?”

“For what I said. I was—I was very mean to you.”

“I’m sorry, Rosie. I wasn’t really paying attention to you this weekend, was I?” She shook her head. “I didn’t think you wanted me to. The way you always act—in the car with me, on the ride up here. I know you think I’m silly, Rosie, but I always love you. I don’t mean to hurt you.”

“I know,” she said.

They got in the back of the van together. Rocco sat with Amy in the middle section of the van, with a borrowed deck of Migo’s cards in one of his hands. “Would you like to see a trick?” he asked Amy.

She looked at him skeptically. “You can do magic, now?”

“Of course!” Rocco insisted.

Migo spent the ride attempting to teach Rocco how to properly do the trick after he failed four times. Rocco was a natural showman, full of confidence and “presence,” according to Migo, but he lacked the finesse to make the trick convincing. “It’ll come with practice. Why don’t you keep that deck?”

“Can I?” He held the deck delicately in his hands

“Sure.”

Rosalind stared out of the window for most of the ride, but she didn’t count the cow fields on the way back south.

They pulled into the parking lot in the late afternoon. Migo unpacked the van while Pastor Dan thanked him with more words than were strictly necessary. The Brauers thanked him, too, James shaking his hand with enough force to jostle Migo’s entire arm.

“He told me he likes how you don’t like to sugar coat things,” Rosalind told her father as the Brauers got in their car. “Are most dads straightforward?”

Migo snorted. “Your grandfather wasn’t. Still isn’t.”

“So it’s a good thing you’re not normal?”

He grabbed Rosalind around the shoulders, holding her in a half-hug. He looked down at her. “Give me another few years and maybe you can tell me.”

The Brauers left in their Lexus. Pastor Dan was about to leave by the time Dr. Terrazini and Mikey pulled up in their battered Toyota. When Rosalind and her father got in, her mother looked between the two of them eagerly.

“Don’t keep me in suspense.” She looked at Migo anxiously.

“It was a good time,” Migo said, half-smiling. “I’m glad I—we—went.”

“Yes, it was good,” Rosalind assured her mother, whose glance had turned back to her. “Dad performed. It was great. Mrs. Brauer wasn’t so annoying and Amy actually talked.”

“That’s wonderful.”

“Well, Mikey had a boring weekend,” Mikey declared, giving them both stern, accusing looks. “He was very bored because Mom made him clean. All weekend.”

“Mikey, you know, you’re not a performing magician yet,” Migo said slowly. “You don’t get the official use of the third person until you earn your stage name. You get that after college. Okay, little man?”

Mikey frowned at the surprising comment as their mother pulled away from the church parking lot. “Okay.I think I want to be a doctor, anyway,” he declared.

Migo turned around in the passenger seat to look at Rosalind. “Is that a start, Rosie?”

“A start,” she agreed, and smiled.